He lies beside her while she does not sleep. The Office lists sleep as unpriceable. He read the leaflet while she was in with the consultant.
There is a road, he says. A hedge on one side. An empty field on the other. Afternoon. No weather to speak of.
Is anyone on the road, she says.
She taught small children for nineteen years. She lets him do it anyway. On bad nights she asks questions. On the worst nights she asks nothing.
Nobody yet. There is a gate further along. Open. It has been open a long time, from the look of the grass.
Nothing has a name or a number. Once he kept a green door and woke with the fee in his head. Four units, payable on waking. No lemon. No music.
Is anyone at the gate.
No.
Are you.
Under the blanket she lifts his hand, weighs it, puts it back.
A hundred and ninety-four between them that would survive a second asking. The board goes to three hundred in the new year. He is not going to be the one who crosses. Neither of them has said it.
Her breathing changes. He carries on to the gate, then stops. He can go through it himself now. Nothing waiting. Nothing worth a penny.
He turns over, she says.
He has already begun. He stops with his shoulder raised.
He falls asleep on the good side of the gate, she says. It is free. It is his.
He only tells her as far as the gate.
Have I told you this.
You talk in your sleep.
He lowers his shoulder. Her eyes are open.
What else.
There is a room, she says. A woman lies in it. She keeps very still. The man is on the other side of the bed. He is telling someone there is nobody here.
He takes her hand.
He takes her hand, she says. He asks her to wake him if she needs anything.
He was about to.
Then what.
I haven't got that far.
He holds on. At the window a truck changes gear. He follows it down the street until he cannot hear it. Her thumb moves once inside his fist.
He stays awake, he says.
For a while, she says.
He wants to argue. The field is empty, the gate open. Her hand is warm. He shuts his eyes with it still in his.
He lets go, she says.
Not yet.